kyrie eleison

I can't sleep. And it's all thanks to Judee Sill.

For those who aren't familiar, Judee was a singer-songwriter from the early 1970s who wrote ethereally baroque, lushly layered, and religiously- and sexually-charged songs that simply don't fit into any music category, though she was initially grouped with Joni Mitchell et al. I won't get into too much bio stuff here, but suffice it to say that Judee burned very brightly for a very short period of time, before fading into obscurity and dying of a drug overdose at the decade's close. She was so reclusive by this point, that many of her friends didn't learn of her passing for a solid year. Her childhood was marred by family deaths and her own deliquency.

I discovered Judee's music randomly about three years ago, when her two albums were still unavailable on CD (a mistake which has since been rectified by Asylum Records). There's no way to describe how powerful Judee's music is, or how much it affects me...she's everything I aspire to be. She's someone I return to listening to several times a year, bringing somber thoughts and fantasies of what could have been had she lived. All the songs she could have written. But some people can't work past their lot in life...it's as if they're destined to have a few hours in the sunlight, like some anchor, before being forever plunged into the deep.

Her song "Lady-O" (which was covered by the Turtles) has got to be the most beautiful thing on record, and it's so stuck in my head right now that I can't sleep. Always one for a good old emotional purging, I recorded a cover version of my own tonight. As she's relatively obscure, I figured I'd post it so others might get turned on to her. See what you think. No sueing, please.

Lady-O.

your own chosen speed

I just finished watching Don't Look Back, a 1960s documentary about Bob Dylan, which proved to be as fascinating as I'd been led to believe it would be.

Dylan always has a profound effect on me, as anyone who's read this blog before will attest to. I've made room for other artists in my radar recently, but this has brought back his enormous blip, sending all the smaller ones flying offscreen. He's amazing to watch, not only while performing, but especially when other people are performing; his gears turn so clearly. He's the real deal, no bones about it. Every second of every minute is pregnant with musical fetuses that blossom and fluoresce in that curly-haired cranium. Some are fortunate enough to grow, others wilt and erode away for good. But the process is remarkably noticeable, and it's proof that he's something else.

This got me wondering of course, as I can't help but be a human about this sort of thing. Am I the real deal? Underneath every personal encounter, every mindless routine, every moment of hot- or cold-blooded emotion -- is there a layer of music-truth? Maybe there doesn't have to be in order to be "the real deal." And it probably doesn't do any good to ruminate on it. Dylan probably didn't sit at his typewriter, debating his own integrity on the vaguest of scales. But he had the devotion of millions to dissuade him from such idle activities. I don't got that.

What I can say I have, at least in the last two weeks, is such an involuntary, overwhelming pull to my music, that I can't focus on anything else. This happens to be good, as there are several unsavory things I'd rather not focus on at all.

I was going to try having some new songs recorded and ready to post by this weekend, but that's looking doubtful. How about some lyrics I'm working on instead? Yes, you say? You'd love to peruse them? Well, splendid. Work in progress, mind you. In case you're curious, each verse is two stanzas, and each chorus is two stanzas.

"insect angel"

tarred and feathered
by request
ten years of blood
vitamins and microchips

they gave me lights
so I could see in the dark
and cut me like a diamond
so none could see me

break my skin
plant a pill
they smell your smarts
before you think of the end

dread Gilgamesh
left ancient dragons boiling in me
I’ve written it on mile markers
but no one believes

through fishflesh eyes
look long, look long
see the indiglo dials
see the secret codes

eraserburn
I checked their hands
and saw the spots
they’d tried to forget

blood from the sky
smells sweet
but they’ve torched my files
and now I can’t reach what I need

what will I be?
all the televisions burst around me
at the symphony
I hear different things

obsidian
are the laws and the liturgy
radars cannot see
the fiberglass coming out of me

this insect angel
is still fixed on the starball
bulbous and stuffed with light
hideous, hideous

I’m classified
and stuck in time
like a sugarmelt
I could swear I once was good

roy g biv
in an oil slick
manta rays blot out the sun,
blot out the sun
think of the end

The end times...

are clearly drawing near. Futurama's contract on Adult Swim has ended.

I'm holding out hope for Comedy Central.

I'm also dedicating tonight's busking to every Earthican's favorite ill-fated cartoon about life, love, and biting shiny metal asses.

Dark Ages

I've decided that I'm okay with being ignored, as long as I can spend 15 minutes with Rachel Weiss every week in return.

So far, that's worked out. (That's right, I'm serious.) But the second week approaches...

I'm not one for being ignored, and it's currently happening. Girls are a complete mystery to me, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I just champion the "can we just talk about this?" way of life, which never seems to click with females, this year being a prime example.

On a somewhat related note, break ups are a weird thing. I'm still recovering from my last one, over half a year ago. It was on my mind a lot today, and I realized that in a way, I'm still in love with her, and with everyone I've loved before. And not in some fancy pants Oversoul kind of love -- I still feel a romantic tether of sorts. There are, of course, other, less attractive feelings braiding said tether, but we won't get into those. It's just a weird thing. Endings. I don't end relationships, at least I don't think I do. But some people REALLY end stuff, really give it the ole guillotine treatment. It's never occurred to me to exile someone from my life. But everyone seems to do it. Parents get divorced. Lovers ditch ya. Friendships can actually split and evaporate. The latter is always the most surprising to me.

I was listening to John Prine on my way to work this morning. It was a song I'd forgotten about called "Taking a Walk," and I don't think I'd heard it since March. The most at-ease, relaxed, and enigmatically bittersweet song. It was a really nice moment. And I wondered, wow, what if John Prine decided I couldn't listen to his music anymore? All his CDs and mp3s just vanished from my possession, and I'd never be allowed to hear so much as a refrain of "Bruised Orange" or "The Other Side of Town" again. Not even look up the lyrics to his songs, not see the covers of his albums. Or, not to do too much qualifying, but what if that happened with Neil Young? Bob Dylan? I'd spend a good portion of the rest of my life struggling to replay their wayward melodies and rhymes in my head, until they melted and reformed as something off-centered and ghastly, a far lesser version of themselves. And I'd never quite remember them the way they were.

Feels familiar.

So that's what happens. Someone decides we shouldn't be a part of their life, and as we sit there, trying to comprehend what just took place, their memory is already distorting itself, taking on a life of its own. And it would be easy to let this happen. The harder choice is to cut ties and let that person go completely. I've never been able to do that.

But what is the better choice? To let this replay mode happen? Or to cut the canker right off? Can you ever really get over anything? Can I, anyhow?

With all these thoughts floating in my blood since summer, it didn't help that my for first time up at bat in a while, I went out swinging like a fool. But lesson learned, I guess. It just happens to be a lesson that makes me more bitter and jaded, so I'm resisting slightly.

I performed as the musical guest for improv group Busker last night. That's right: an improv group that takes their suggestions from the performance of a busker! Good gravy! How awesome is that? Awesome to the nth, would be one answer, and a good one at that. I had a swell time being a part of their show, and seeing how my songs influenced their scenes. Folded Fox made an appearance, and I rounded off the set with some of my favorite covers. Had a few friends come as well, which is always nice. It was a strange sensation performing on stage like that....though I'm an actor and improviser in my own right, I'm not used to performing music in an environment where people are -- at least -- arranged so as to be watching me. Usually they just walk right past me, or linger for a moment and chuck me a quarter. So I was a little tense. Nevertheless, good practice, as I'd like to be playing more bars eventually. Many thanks to the fine folks of Busker for having me.

My computer's hard drive pooped out at the start of this week. Not a nice experience, but I'd thankfully done a pretty good job of backing up my important stuff. I lost the garageband file for Folded Fox, so it's more or less set in stone now. I also lost three days of chances to record, as my mind was teeming with thoughts like those above. I was not to be thwarted, however. My recently resurrected reel-to-reel reigned in the responsibility of recording rather regally. It's a little too old-school for my tastes, as I've been spoiled with having all of my scraps arranged as mp3s, but it did the job. I also took this opportunity to go back and make super basic recordings of some stuff in my notebooks that never got put on tape.

So here I am, procrastinating work on my Wicked audition because I can't stop moping over some girl who isn't worth the trouble, while my friends are all partying in New Jersey, and the chunks of my family are strewn across the country miles away. I don't think I could feel any more alone.

Refolded Fox

I started thinking about the point of my new song, Folded Fox. The basic premise is people are made up of what they are, their experiences, their memories. And it's better to let those things have an effect on you, otherwise you're not made up of anything if you pretend the bad stuff never happened. Whether or not "that which does not kill me makes me stronger," it certainly does make me me.

After ruminating on this for a bit, I did some substantial rerecording of the song, most of which I'm rather happy with. Wanting to have an unpolished, semi-lo-fi sound to reflect the idea of an imperfect history, I ran one vocal track through my reel-to-reel, then recorded it into my computer, while still leaving the original vocal track the way it was. The goal was to make a present/past sound that merged into a mellow little pool of lyrics...who knows if it worked at all, but it was fun to make, and I'm enjoying listening to it.

Just like First Snow of the Year (which I think I talked about recently), I got a lot of new ideas for tiny guitar parts that thread in and out of the main progression, in a muffled spray.

All in all, I think it's a better song now. It's going to be really hard to not keep tweaking it forever, though. I usually don't do much with the songs I record; two, maybe three or four tracks. But every so often I'll start working on something and wind up opening Pandora's Music Box of endless (and likely needless) ideas.

Anyhow, thanks for the feedback. Here's the new Folded Fox.

Folded Fox

Taken by a feverish fit of fabricative faculties, I finally finished the finer facets of a song I'd been working on since Fune. Ahem, June.

Folded Fox.

Technically, I came up with the guitar part close to a year ago, but didn't set any words to it until the infamous Bummer Summer of '07. It's by far the most revised song I've recorded yet, I'd say. The lyrics got redrafted around 7 times, and I'm sure they'll still continue to be tweaked (the middle section is especially wonky to me).

Spurred on by some recent flurries, I had been listening to one of my first recorded songs, "First Snow of the Year," (I know that sounds really self-absorbed...I just get really into retracing my steps), which I still think is one of my personal favorites. It had a very warm, analog sound to it due to a space heater being on during recording, and it's a sound that I like a lot. I wanted "Fold Fox" to have some sorta soft chugging sound to it, so I kept all the tracks going even when they weren't being used, so there'd be a dose of white noise in there. Sounds okay, I can't really tell if it works. Some of the lyrics aren't half bad, but I can never judge this sorta thing.

At least it's done. I have three or four songs from the summer still unfinished, a hopefully dwarfing number, as I'd really like to make good on that "I'm gonna write some happy songs now" claim.

Alarum

Last night:

Commenced busking circa 7:00 pm. Just wanted to go out for a while, wind down, get my mind off stupid things. Played John Prine song "Speed of the Sound of Lonelyness" (sic) and Elliott Smith's "Pretty (Ugly Before)" for the first time. The latter was pretty popular. Also debuted "Hands & Knees", something of my own I've been tweaking. All was good with the world. Money was made. Somebody even gave me a 20 (though they swapped it with some singles from my guitar case).

Around 9:15, decided I was tired. One more song. Finish whatever it is I'm playing, then I'll wrap it up with "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." I hear a little ruckus going on at the ticket counter behind me, but mostly ignore it. "He's allowed to be playing here" seeps through. I ignore. I play. I get interrupted by clatter on the dividing bars behind me.

"Hey, buddy."

Great. A cop. Scratch that, two cops.

I've dealt with this before. He'll tell me to go away, I'll act like a snot and end up packing, then wishing I'd played it cooler when I think back on it later. So I take a deep breath. I will be cool. I won't act like a douche.

"What's up, man?" I ask, totally chill, friend to the world and all its creatures.

"Look man, I'm not gonna tell you you can't play here, but you gotta be at least 50 feet from the ticket booth. Move around the corner."

"Why, is it poisonous?"

"What?"

"Is the booth poisonous?"

"No. Why?"

"Why can't I be this close?"

"Look, it's the rule."

"Okay, that's cool. I'm not trying to argue, it's just I've either been told to pack it up or nothing at all. I haven't heard the booth thing before."

"Well, it's the rule."

"Okay. Man. That's just weird. Have you ever been down here before? People play in this spot all the time."

"How old are you?"

"Huh?"

"How old are you?"

"I...uh, I think that's neither here nor there."

"Just tell me how old you are."

"30, let's say."

A blank look. The beginnings of a protesting response. I chime in:

"All right, I'm 24."

"You're 24? I've been working this area for six years, so I don't need you to school me on what goes on down here."

"Okay, I --"

"You're not supposed to play so close."

"Okay. I've been playing here for two years, this is what I do, and I'm not arguing, all I'm saying is people play in this spot and this spot alone down here, so I'm --"

"You wanna see the rule?"

"I'd love to."

"It's upstairs in my car. You wanna go upstairs?"

I get the implication. "No, on second thought, I'm comfortable here."

Pause. Pretty long. Me:

"So, this is a pretty interesting stand-off we have here."

"There's no stand-off."

Pause. I finally begin to pack up to migrate "around the corner". Figures that no trains have come to take my audience away in like 10 minutes, so they're seeing all of this. Cop:

"You should do your research. Look up the rule."

As I round the corner: "Yeah, I'll be sure to do that."

I unpack almost literally next to the track, because the platform shrinks greatly after the booth area. As I'm sorting my harps, my peripheral vision picks up the cop's partner stalking up to me. Double great. Cop 2:

"Hey, I gotta say: he defended you. The station master reported you, and he (his partner) defended you. He didn't have to do that."

"Okay, it didn't really come off as a defense --"

"And you acted like a dick. He defended you and you acted like a dick to him."

"Well, I'm sorry, but--"

"That's all I'm saying."

"Wait. Think about it. Think about who I am, and who you are. I'm not used to someone like you defending someone like me, so I'm sorry if I didn't pick up on it, but it seems like he--"

"He defended you and you acted like a dick."

"Well, tell him I appreciate it."

Cop 2 strolls off, muttering under his breath.

I pause. Fumble with my guitar until the train of salvation removes my onlookers and leaves me alone. Then I go home.

But it's not over. With my newfound information, I cross to the ticket booth, knock lightly on the window, and wish the elderly man who's working in there a mildly sarcastic good night. As I move away, he emerges:

"Hey, wait!"

"What's up?"

"I want to let you know I think you're the most talented person down here. He made me report you!"

"Who did?"

"The station master! He made me do it! I like having you down here. All the other guys are broken records. You're the only good one."

"Well, thanks, man."

"It depends on what station master's working. No one's consistent. I say, 'is he allowed to play down here or no?' He says it's a volume issue."

"Weird. I've never heard that before...I've been down here two years."

"Yeah, I've been down here for four months. You're really great, I just wanted to let you know. It wasn't my choice."

"Well, thanks. What's your name?"

"Ed."

We shake, somewhat uncomfortably.

"Ed. I'm Rob. Nice to meet you. Have a good night."

"You too, Rob."

Gone.

What the hell? What's wrong with me? I really tried hard not to be an asshole to those guys, but I really hate cops. I hate misplaced, ridiculously machismo authority figures. It makes me sick. But here this guy defends me because the station master doesn't want me there at all, and I rattle on and act like the unavoidable douche, driving his help away. THEN I learn that even the booth guy didn't want to kick me out. Geez! If I'd only left when I had the instinct, the whole thing could've been avoided. The rest of my evening found me dwelling on the way I treat people, and how it could stand some serious improvement.

All day I'd been fretting over the dumbest personal stuff, basically being self-absorbed for no good reason, only to have the only actual impact I had on the world for the day be an overall negative one. If that makes sense. Basically, to use lame gym teacher speak, I need an attitude adjustment.

I tried keeping that in mind today. Remaining understanding at all times, or making that the challenge, at any rate. Not easy in customer service. Then I tried applying it to the annoying personal stuff. Still working on that...thankfully, there is no shortage of reasonable distractions at the moment.

it's alive.

Though the cost of the operation is to be forever resented, my reel-to-reel recorder has been brought back to the land of the living, to the elation of the general populous.

I originally purchased the tape recorder during the summer of 2004 (the original Bummer Summer, for those in the know), when songs were running wild and I needed desperately to document each sighting. I'd also procured an incredibly nice electric piano from my friend Kelley who needed a place to store it for the summer, so much of the aforementioned sightings involved me attempting to play things on an instrument I know very little about.

A couple songs that evolved from this era are "Lifeboat Violin" and "The Fly," both of which are on my .mac page. Most everything else I'd totally forgotten about. It had been an infuriating year and a half knowing there were songs sleeping in this AKAI sarcophagus with no reasonable means of rousing them due to a broken motor.

To be totally candid, a great majority of these forgotten "jems" were recorded while I was drunk after a long night of work at Legal Seafood. They're also not quite the jems that a year and a half of mythologizing had led me to believe they were, but I'm nonetheless always fascinated to hear my older recordings and see what things about my process have changed or remained the same. I guess I weigh out the work of actual recording artists in much the same way. Growth has always interested me. There seems to be a fair amount of really nice instincts I had initially that I've buried, and also a lot of pretentious inventions that deserved that fate. Raises the question: is growth really growth?

Most of the songs on my tapes are very small fragments that seem too devoid of context to make any sense, but a few are decent. "Angel Post" is the first real piano-based song I've written, and I still sorta like the very elementary melody it has. I was most interested in this character/confessional song about an old west pastor whose family all died during the process of building a chapel, all of which is of course chalked up to the wisdom of God. Not my outlook on things at all, hence it being a character song. I'm not sure how long it is, as there's no clock/timer mechanism on the reel-to-reel, but I think it must be around 12-15 minutes long, which is pretty crazy considering it was entirely improvised, and most of it involves lyrics (though, to be fair, there are some non-rhyming verses in there).

I don't have splicing tape. In a notorious incident dating back two years, cranberry juice found its way onto the recorder and soaked my tape. Thankfully, this didn't destroy anything, but it did make the tape sticky, and eventually caused it to snap in three different places. Not a big deal for tape like this, since it can be spliced together. Cue first sentence in this paragraph. Until that happens, my apartment will continue to be a hi-fi jungle, lengths of audio tape dangling from my cabinets like vines in an attempt at organizing them into some kind of order. I can already see this being something that never gets amended.

dirty medicine

i'm getting hooked on the whole lower-case too-cool-for-school approach to typing. this has been my approach in word documents since forever because it makes lyrics look a lot more simple and non-pretentious to me (also the method i employ in handwriting), but i think it may have the opposite effect on the rest of the world.

I have a new song! Check out "Down to Earth" on my .mac page for downloading and general fandom. The song itself is pretty disjointed, seeing as the music is two years old (probably close to the day) and the lyrics just kinda fell out in one sitting, less than a week ago. Still, it's not awful. I dunno. Gimme feedback, yo.

By the weekend, I should have "Insect Angel" and "Hands & Knees" up as well. I've been procrastinating in case of lyrical changes, but it's pretty lame to let that get in the way, I guess.

over break, i gave a lot of my unfinished recordings a good listen and thought: holy crap. my music's really sad. like.....all of it. there aren't really any uptempo songs, either. it all SOUNDS sad in addition to actually BEING sad. geez. am i really that jaded? i don't think of myself as a gloom & doom disciple, but my writing seems to reflect this outlook pretty consistently. and that's really not something i feel good about. sure, it's been an awful year and life is hard and whatever....but this has to stop. i'm going to blitz through the rest of the songs i have in my pipeline just so i can focus on writing something that could at least pass as "content."

and now, sleep.

a view from the bed

Be it a matter of too much partying or too much work or a lethal combination of the two, the end result is the same: I'm so sick I literally can't get out of bed. It took every ounce of strength I had to get my iPhone from across the room, meaning I had none left to procure medicine. I might try again in a few minutes.

It was certainly nice to sleep in, although my dreams were nothing but me interacting with customers. Exotic, right? I think I'd prefer the persistent nightmares I was having earlier in the summer.

Figures that on my one day off, I've got such a sore thoat I can't get any recording done. I'm really not sure when I'll get a chance to work on any of it; this weekend is nothing but training and performances pretty much nonstop. I'd like to hammer out the guitar parts at least, but this fever's got me so weak I can barely muster the energy to play. This whole thing is a flashback to my wonderful bonding time with mono back in high school. I don't think I could get that again, though.

All right, I gotta psych this cold outta me so I can go to my improv show tonight without playing an invalid in every scene.

an ambulance can only go so fast

I'm considering turning this blog into a dream rant. Lately my dreams have been so remarkably visceral that I expect to wake up with a prominently-featured object from one of them forming a suspicious lump beneath my pillow that demands investigation involving mouths falling agape.

In other news, writing is going really well. I've written five or six songs in the last two weeks, though only two are in a finished state. All in all, the pulling-lyrics-out-of-a-hat method has worked really well not only in and of itself, but as an approach that makes me more aware of instances that could benefit from other practices. I may need to edit that sentence later; it doesn't make any sense.

My most recent dream was basically my subconscious' version of Eraserhead, with the added presence of Dog the Bounty Hunter as my mom's lover, and customers from the Soho Apple store who were impatiently waiting for me to bring them a dead baby shaped like a match.

Speaking of which, I watched my first episode of Gray's Anatomy last night. Too sad. Can't like things that are that sad. Must....not....like....show....ALL RIGHT, okay, it
was pretty good but it's still too sad. I mean, mommies dying all over the place and people crying like it's the coolest new fad. Newsflash: It's not cool. Play more Futurama.

My new mics have arrived, but as I'm in training all weekend, I have no clue when I'll get a chance to set 'em up, let alone record my new songs. Additionally, I have an unfinshed piece about a Dickensian street urchin that needs to be redrafted and completed for my solo perf class on Monday. In short, things are looking grim for everyone's hero.

Ghost

I wrote a song last night. It came out of nowhere, but I think it had been lurking around for a while, like some vapor that invisibly fills up the room, and all too late you realize someone's run a tube from an exhaust pipe straight into your unsuspecting home and lungs. Who knows why such a thing would happen. Let me have my analogies, damn it.

Yesterday was possibly one of the most stressful I'd had in a while, so I guess it was inevitable that I'd need bloodlet in song form. Funny how that kind of inspiration only leads to new material. I could've stood to finish about six or seven older songs that are now looking as insurmountable to me as my outstanding college loan balance. Ah well.

It's called "Hands and Knees," and I'm actually really happy with it. I spent an hour or so on it tonight, tweaking chord progression and the outro, and I think it's halfway decent. Like most spur-of-the-moment songs, the whole thing was written (lyrically) in about 15 minutes, with the music taking an extra 30 maybe, excluding my work tonight. Why can't all songs be that easy?

I've been working on this semi-epic, semi-free-association piece called "Insect Angel" for almost two months, and something's still not quite right. I think I need a writing partner. My lyrics feel like they're getting better most of the time, but my musical output hasn't grown up at all. I actually feel like I've regressed from the stuff I was working on for my album last year.

Feeling like I needed to record this stuff, and getting sick of my condenser mic drowning out my mixes with gross guitar, I made a whim purchase of a new mic set. One of the mics is actually made for instruments (gasp), so I'm hoping it'll make this stuff sound clearer. Well, sorta. If it sounds too good, I'll want to rerecord all my songs, which will be Sadsville. It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Not much busking lately, thanks to the MTA being a bunch of douches and killing off the local trains at night (or, as is the new weekend standard, all trains at my stop). Lord help me if I ever encounter an MTA employee in...a game of GoldenEye. He would get hurt.

I'll probably post "Hands and Knees" and "Insect Angel" sometime this week, soon's I get this new gear. Keep your eyes peeled if you're interested.

See the sky about to rain

Thank goodness for electrical outlets on trains.

I spent a total of about 20 hours on buses or in shady, shady greyhound stations in the last 48 hours, where the slightest of amenities is overlooked, having been deemed entirely superfluous. Now epic bus trips are nothing foreign to me. I have a romantic flair in me somewhere, and have at least on one other occasion undertaken to ride a bus for an unneccesarily long pilgrimage with the intention of "learning about myself" and "seeing the country." Too bad the people who ride greyhound buses are so fucking scary that it doesn't really matter how well-intentioned your goals are.

But more on that another time.

The good thing about traveling (for me anyway) is that it almost always yields a huge chunk of inspiration for writing. I dunno if it's the change of scenery as much as just the feeling of getting something done without having to acutally do anything at all. Things progress whether or not you want them to. Its actually the closest thing I've known to a sacntuary in my lifetime; there's no pressure to be doing something else since you're stuck where you are, so whatever you happen to accomplish during that time is bonus material.

I've kinda stalemated myself, though. Things aren't coming quite as easily as I'm accustomed to during travels. I knew that two weekends of weddings in a row would probably depress the hell outta me, but I didn't think it would drain me down to skeletal proportions. Last weekend, while weddinging it up, I felt a strange piece of paper in my blazer pocket, and pulled out a ticket stub from the first play I saw with her, complete with her name printed on it. I felt sick for a day. You don't want to go to more weddings when you feel that way.

Now I'm on the aforementioned train after meeting up briefly with my dad, stepmom and brother in DC. It was really nice seeing them, though I was so thoroughly exhausted that I fear I may have been pretty poor company.

Seeing Funk and Jason at the wedding really was worth the trip. It's nice I have friends you've got such a cool history with, even if they're practically on the other side of the world. A nice surprise was seeing my old friend Chris Tillman again. I'd totally forgotten how cool that guy is. Funk and I came up with a movie idea all spur-of-the-moment like at the wedding. It's times like these that frustrate the hell outta me andmake me really wish that Project Ginger had been telepods (Fly-like mishaps aside).

Back to the train. My dad had recommended a specific side and view for the ride, but it's become so inky dark outside that all I can see is my own reflection. I never seem to look the way I should, or the way I picture myself looking. Right now I look like some hunched Dickensian poet, and the writers block only makes this more image more pathetic.

Dad gave me my old middle school saxophone today, which I haven't used in probably like eight years. I'm stoked to bust it out again and add it to my ever-growing menagerie. Guess I need to pick up a mouthpiece somewheres.

Can't stop listening to Neil Young's On the Beach. A mostly forgotten album. Feels familiar.

Kingdom Come

Feeling antsy led me to busking for about an hour last night, starting around 1 am. Not prime time for such a thing, especially with erratic train schedules due to construction. I didn't make a dime, but it purged me of my restlessness, so woohoo.

Over the weekend while attending a wedding in the Poconoes, my "sore" wrist that I'd mentioned a few days ago became grossly swollen to the point where I was freaking out a bit. It's gone down since, but last night it flared up again, proving to me that this probably has something to do with my strumming. I don't feel like I'm doing anything wrong per se, but evidently my body feels differently. Or maybe my epic four and half hour stint on Friday was simply too much for my wrist to handle. I dunno. But I guess I'm gonna lay off for a while.

Thank God I have a real job right now. I was imagining myself as a lone balladeer wandering from town to town in the wild west, playing for breadrolls and sleeping on straw pillows...couldn't afford to have a bum wrist in that scenario. I'd likely turn into a left-handed gunslinger or somesuch. Actually, I feel like anybody with a bum anything back then would be pretty much boned.

New song: "Turn" by Travis.

Leechwater

Went busking for so long last night that my strumming arm was rendered completely useless for nearly 24 hours. I've never quite experienced that level of fatigue from playing before. Well, sometimes vocally, sure. But my strumming is usually basic enough not to cause any unusual behavior. I dunno if I fancied things up last night, if it was just a really long time to play, or if I'm sore 'cause I hadn't played much in about a week. Not important, just interesting.

Setbacks, setbacks. I had the day off today, but was entirely incapable of getting anything done. Unless you count watching The Bridge, a totally fascinating documentary. Not something I should be watching probably, but whatevs.

This week I finally did accomplish a few things that I'd been meaning to get around to: I mounted my guitar hanger on my wall so as to display my beautiful (and as of yet, unnamed) telecaster, and nailed up a picture of this big ole music note. It used to be my dad's, and since I was a kid I've always loved it. There's a little conductor standing in front of the mammoth note, his arms splayed out in mid-conduction. There's not really a way to describe how cool it is (that's why there's the picture), but let's just say that if I had a shirt with this note on it, I probably woulda got into Music Under New York, easy. But I wouldn't want that anyway.

I played the little-known Radiohead song "True Love Waits" for the first time tonight. So good. I'm not sure that subway stations contain the most appreciative audiences for that sorta thing. But I played it three times anyway.

A few minutes after started playing, some religious dude showed up and started passing out pamphlets. At first, I was kinda concerned that people would think we were in cahoots, and assume that all the songs I was playing were somehow linked to righteous lifestyles or something. This really got me in my head, and I began self-consciously scanning what I was singing for conservative/spiritual content. It seemed like just about anything could fit into that mould. (Mold?) "Heart of Gold" sounded suddenly preachy, "Make You Feel My Love" seemed frighteningly hymn-ish, and the aforementioned Radiohead song took on a much more after-school special feeling than it actually has. Not that I have a problem with any of that stuff, I just don't want to peddle that sort of stuff on the hapless patrons of the fine MTA, you know? Luckily, he seemed to repel so many people that they sought me as a comparative refuge, with all the dollars that come along with the services of such a haven.

I'd like to write more, but things are getting fuzzy in regards to my last outing; I think I've hit the highlights. The goal for this coming week is to finish revising and recording the songs I've been working on since May, which number about 20. We'll see what actually happens.

manta rays and munsters

It looks as though Nick at Nite's come up with an original program. Lord help us all.

The last two weeks have emulated the last five months, acting like an ever-shrinking, ever-quickening cyclone, spinning memory debris all over me and tossing me around like a bale of hay that's come apart. It sucks reliving stuff over and over again, and I'm not positive if I'm doing it to myself or not. It feels like you just can't help some things. But sure, I'm over it.

But what's weird is I can't talk about it. At all. If she's mentioned in the slightest, off I go again down some muddy mental slip 'n slide. But I literally can't bring myself to tell someone that I'm still upset about it. Or mention it, even. It's not like I don't want to, and I feel like I probably should, and that that stuff's all just going to fester into some mound in my gut if I don't coax it out like a tapeworm. But haven't I done that already? Like months ago? It's pathetic at this point. How long is this tapeworm, anyhow? I need to get over this. But I'm not yet. And I just can't admit it.

I guess that energy has to go somewhere, so I've been upchucking it all into my notebook. I have no idea what kinds of songs I've been writing; they're frighteningly abstract, yet as close as I'll probably ever come to clearly and "publicly" discussing the stuff I'm made up of. Like last fall, inspiration is coming from mystery, hoaxes, myths....so much so that I'm starting to think its all I'm capable of drawing from. At least its a quasi-niche in singer-songwriter berserk-hyphenated land. But lately the pieces I've been working on have like literally scared me. They don't sound like me. It's like I've been digging and digging and it turns out I was performing an epic root canal, and now that I pull back and think on it for a sec, I'm some tiny tiny miner peering up from a crater inside some dark molar, and its clear that I never meant to take it this far because my rope sure ain't gonna get me outta here now. Not like I'm going off the deep end or anything, just that I've unleashed a tiny gremlin out of my head, and he's never going to quite fit back in again, and wouldn't really have done anybody any harm had he stayed in there to begin with. It's like someone representing me has screamed out these songs in protest of my stoicism in order to get my attention, to wake me up.

At times like these I always think its good I don't partake of heroin or something. I have, however, just finished a behemoth of a plate of fishsticks upon realizing that the only food I've got is a box of government-condemned Topps hamburgers. Maybe I shoulda ate 'em just to test out how well e. coli stands up to my new health insurance.

Is it bad that I'm more upset that there's a pumpkin shortage than glad that there's not another flu vaccine shortage?

I can't stop this gross pull to the stations...its like this every night. All I can think about is how badly I need to perform this stuff, even if its just to a bunch of MTA patrons who are probably too busy direct-feeding a Top 40's I.V. right into their brains to notice some morose kid banging on a stringbox. It probably is better that way, heaven knows how awful these songs actually are in all likelihood.

This is kind of a weirder post, but my mind's getting all cannibalistic on me, so I may as well let it do its thing.

New Radiohead album in a few hours. Pathetic as it seems, i'm sure i'll end up feeling immensely unaccomplished in some overarching sense after I hear it. That being said, I can't recall the last time I felt this excited about anything.

My Volume Knob

Rather than hopping on my rented copy of Videodrome, I deemed it a good idea to busk for a chunk of time last night. It certainly warped my mind a little less than the aforementioned flick woulda.

Or so I'd have thought. My mind ended up lost in a tangled ten-minute harmonica jam, an event that seemed to engender more consternation than anything else in passersby. Hey, what can I say? Sometimes you feel it. And you gotta run with it. Even if "it" is a wild, ellipsoidal sequence of notes that are mutilated by dirty, cracked walls, some of which happen to be made up of humans.

Someone using a pay phone in the station had the gaul to tell me to quiet down they could proceed with their conversation, and didn't I have any respect for communication? I responded that using a pay phone in a subway station didn't seem like a contender for best logical decision of the year. My point was seconded a few moments later by a cantankerous express train that shattered the previously unmarred sound barrier in the station, making me seem no more than a cricket in comparison. I didn't quiet down, as you may have guessed.

I received a note in my case that read: "Great music. I would love to improve your feng shui by moving your guitar case and money in front of you, or even to the side. Good luck!"

That's not really a new idea to me, but the strap that hold the lid to my case upright's busted, so I need to lean it against something. Also, it's easier to steal a busker's money if you don't have to go through them first, which is why I like to have it behind me. Though that creates the issue of not being able to see what someone's doing, and if they're donating or really pilfering. The gusts of nasty wind in stations would also probably send my money flying if it was laid out in front of me. I need to get a hat. A deep one. Buskers with top hats are acceptable, right?

New songs:
"About a Girl"
"Dumb"
"Pennyroyal Tea" by Nirvana
"(nice dream)"
"Wolf at the Door" by Radiohead

Rob pens soundtrack Classic!

When soon-to-be-released Troma horror film, Street Team Massacre, propositioned mild-mannered folk singer Rob Morrison to write them a theme song, no one could have known the surprising results that would come to pass.

Reports are coming in from across the country; "Drink Me Up (Theme from Street Team Massacre)" is flooding the airwaves. The upbeat, intensely catchy 80s-style rock song has quickly overtaken Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" as the most frequently played tune at sporting events of all kinds. Due to its extreme catchiness, iTunes downloads of the song have cracked all known records as listeners everywhere rush to add "Drink Me Up" to their mp3 players. As a direct result, thousands of people have not been able to stop running or working out since the song was released.

Herman Wright, an Upper West Side accountant, had this to say as he sprinted by a Helal foods vendor: "I've never been much of an athlete. But just when I think I can't go any further, the chorus kicks in and Rob's searing vocals drive the lactic acid right out of my tired muscles!"

After reports of paraplegics regaining the use of their legs by virtue of hearing the righteous riffs of "Drink Me Up," several nursing homes across the eastern seaboard began pumping the song through their PA systems to astonishing effects. "It's as though Morrison's song is able to completely reverse the effects of aging," said Barbara Kovacs, Assistant Supervisor at Greener Pastures Nursing Home in Worcester, MA. "Senility has been totally eradicated in all of our patients. I've even heard of asylums using this rollicking anthem to cure mental diseases."

Meanwhile, even greater plans seem to be in store for Mr. Morrison's single. An anonymous White House official informed us that former President Reagan's Star Wars program is to be remounted, but with a focus on peace. "We plan on starting nearly from scratch on the space station, and replacing all the lasers with the largest speakers we can manufacture. With the hugest sound system in history surrounding it and playing Rob Morrison's "Drink Me Up," we're confident that the Earth will reach a state of world peace within forty-eight hours. It would be shorter, but many countries will no doubt need to translate the lyrics before the effects of the song can take place."

With all this excitement teeming around Morrison's single, the singer/songwriter himself was unable to comment much, only to remind us that the film Street Team Massacre has not even been released yet. Projected to overturn Superbad's current stranglehold on the box office, Street Team Massacre is already gaining a fan base so rabid and ubiquitous, that when the film's delayed release was announced, sales of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows dropped by nearly 75% (this being only three days after the unveiling of said book) as fans everywhere gathered in town squares across the country to protest and mourn. Troma has assured the public that Street Team Massacre will see the light of day very soon after its debut at the Austin Film Festival in a few short weeks.

We wish Mr. Morrison and the crew at Street Team Massacre the best of luck, and congratulate them on the quintuple platinum sales of the instant-classic theme song, "Drink Me Up."

Call Me Kotter

'Cos I'm back, baby.

It's been almost a month since I last went busking....a deleterious combo of work, the feeling that I should maybe exercise on occasion, and a lot of writing, has kept me away from the veritable sweat bucket that is the MTA in summer. But apparently nothing can hold me back forever.

I spent about two hours in the transit kiln last night, and made some pretty serious bank. Also got another dude give me the old Piano Man line "man, what are you doing here?" He talked about making some phone calls for me and hooking me up with whatever contacts he may or may not actually have...what I've learned in my time down there is that this sorta thing never happens. I've had at least five or six people tell me they're convinced they can further me along some path, and none of them returned my phone calls.

It makes me want to really push myself into the music scene more. You know: go for the gold and all that. I guess I'm not really sure how to do that. And I don't think my music is something that's going to resonate much with most people. Maybe I should pass out free demos in Times Square like those hip hop guys do. "Hey! Hey bro, you like over-sentimental, abstract folk music?" Yeah, probably not.

Considering an electric guitar if I end up with any extraneous birthday money soon. Or concertina. Or twenty jews harps.

The one downside to this move back to performing (albeit a gradual one) is that I've lost a lot of interest in the songwriting I was working on. It's always like that...swap out one thing for another. My brain just doesn't work in both modes at once. It does seem to be able to make sure I'm running Bit Torrent 24/7, however.

There's a Busker Musical?

That's right! Finally, the world has, in a small way, caught up with me: busking is officially cool enough to get its own movie, albeit a small-release made in Ireland. Check this shit out!

It's called Once.

bucket brigade

I added a new song called "Stanley Steamer" to my .mac page a few days ago. It's something I've been working on for about three years with multiple rewrites and hair-yanking frustration, so I'm glad that I finally made some headway on it. I guess sometimes it just takes the right context to make a song work, and the stars finally aligned for this one.

My friend Matt Guess has an awesome new song on his myspace page you should all check out. He and I have similar taste, but I think where I channel traditional folk, he channels Elliott Smith. Listen to "When You Walk Through that Door" and prepare to rock out to an awesome single-not instrumental bridge.

I can't remember if I've mentioned it already, but my songwriting friends from college, Lauren and Sean, having been meeting up with me weekly so we can put our collective nose to the grindstone of songwriting. (Whoever came up with the nose to the grindstone saying? It's messed up. I should have known before I literally tried it...) Since I've been in a writing upswing, this has been a great chance to get some feedback.

I'll have one or two new songs up on my .mac page by the end of the weekend, so keep your eyes peeled (another saying that's not advisable to try).

words support like bone

Oh, the cycles of life. Specifically, the cycle of writing has been getting me thinking a lot.

In the last two weeks, I've written a bunch of songs, both finished and not, both in my regular notebook and on shreds of thermapaper from cash registers, both being made up of my usual pet themes as well as being about nothing at all. It's been good. But everytime I hit a writing flash like this, it's only a matter of time before I unconsciously start seeking out other writers.

Maybe it's just because my brain wants to surround itself with what I'm into at the moment. But I think it's because the more I feel like I'm getting a handle on writing, the more I realize that there's a whole freaking pandora's box in my mind, and once I start letting out slips of thoughts in a steady stream every day, I can't turn it off, and don't know how to handle the less-familar, shadowy ideas that I didn't even know I had.

Consequently, I've been voraciously gnawing at books all week. Barnes and Noble (the one in Chelsea that has that coffee bar on the balcony floor) always makes me feel pseudo-intelligent, and I try to get a dose of it when I'm in these moods. Anne Sexton -- a brilliant poet, who I only became familiar with after obsessing over the Peter Gabriel song "Mercy Street" -- revealed some insane poems to me this week, among them, "Rumpelstiltskin" and "Suicide Note." I don't know loads about her, but she moved into poetry rather late in life, which is mind-boggling to me because her writing would suggest she was swaddled in it from an early age.

In passing I picked up a Dylan Thomas collection, eenie-meenied my way to a random poem, and had my mind blown. All I knew was "Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light," or whatever it's called. I'm retarded.

It'd be nice if all this intake will give me more perspective and help me manhandle all these pandorian matters.

my love, she speaks like silence

Songs can be regrettable things, even if you didn't write them.

I was out busking tonight (briefly, as drunken homeless types forced me to relocate a few times), and going through a few songs I hadn't played in a while. About ten seconds into "Love Minus Zero/No Limit" by Dylan (seriously one of the best love songs ever), it suddenly hit me that I'd associated this song with someone, and that for whatever reason, it was no longer appropriate to sing with that person in mind. The song totally lost its soul as I fell into this mental well, splashing around and trying to get a hold of why the song had ever meant so much. It seemed really hopeless, and I couldn't figure out why I was just going through the motions.

But songs are independent things, no matter how you attach yourself to them.

Dylan's song is all about "his love," and since I first heard it, I assumed he meant a girl. His "love." But all the wonderful qualities that he details about this woman throughout the song...it's too idyllic, too idealistic. No girl is like that. And it hit me. Maybe he just meant his capacity to love. His Love is "like some raven, at my window with a broken wing." Not some perfect girl. The whole song very well could be about him, and this cryptic, beautiful quality in himself that is perhaps so surprising to even him that he felt compelled to personify it in song as if his love was a lover.

Thinking all of these things in an instant, somewhere during the third verse, I felt the song take root again. I hadn't lost anything. I guess it's pretty impossible not to link songs to people, and that's not all bad. But it's a nice feeling to remember that they stand on their own, too.

Is this all really obvious? It might be, but I'd forgotten.

Many thanks to the gentleman who dropped a ten dollar bill in my case, as well as the couple who rode the train with me to 28th Street and stayed in the station for a few minutes to hear me play. It made my night.

busker about town

i just spilled soy sauce on my shirt.

also, busking sucked tonight. cops were doing a bag check (at 9:00 pm, mind you), and asked me to go to the other side of the station. not one to be told what to do, i hopped a train uptown and tried finding a spot elsewhere. they were not to be had. I circumvented 59th street and headed back downtown, ending up where I'd begun at 23rd street. well, at least i can say i got to see a lot of new york tonight. not that i needed that.

i mostly did originals tonight, but the one story of note happened while i was meandering my way through don mclean's "vincent." I noticed a woman standing behind me, on the other side of the fencing. she stuck around for the whole song, leaning against the fence with her eyes closed, and when I was finished, she got my attention and told me "that was beautiful," and put her hand to her heart. she handed me a dollar through the fence and walked off....that lifted me up a little bit. i'm not sure if she had left the train and heard me on the way out or what, but it was a really...I dunno...artistic/nice/cool thing to do, sticking around like that.

in writing news, i'm going to have all my lyrics (or a sizable portion) on my .mac page soon. click the "rob's music: free" link to the right to download some of the songs i've posted to the aforementioned page. it would be nice to have songs on blogger, but this website doesn't let me do much.

there's been an overload of poetry reading every night for me...i'm a walking cliche. anyone who knows me or my writing well knows i'm pretty obsessed with william blake. i wrote a concept album based on "songs of innocence and of experience" a few years ago, but there were a couple poems that fell through the cracks. i've been reacquainting myself with a few of them, and one in particular really hit me. in case anyone's interested, i transcribed blake's poem "the clod & the pebble" below...it's awesome.

the clod & the pebble

love seeketh not itself to please,
nor for itself hath any care;
but for another gives its ease,
and builds a heaven in hells despair.

so sang a little clod of clay,
trodden with the cattles feet;
but a pebble of the brook,
warbled out these metres meet.

love seeketh only self to please
to bind another to its delight:
joys in anothers loss of ease,
and builds a hell in heavens despite.

nothing's to win

I've been laying around writing a lot, which has been good. Probably need to go out into civilization soon, but I can't handle any more disappointments. I mean, there had better be telepods by the time I get out there. Or at least no more rumors of Gremlins 3 with CG-only effects.

Anyway, check out my new .mac page and listen to "Tides." Or does it look better if I go like this? http://homepage.mac.com/digitalshrub. I can never tell.

I have a bunch of unfinished songs from the last four months or so that I'm going to try to sketch out and record in the coming days. May as well. I don't like leaving things unfinished, it's a bad habit.

No time like the present.

I've had a rough few days, and I guess it's given me the slight perk of being able to write a lot and try to get some stuff out there. So, I'm relatively pleased to tell you doods that I have a website through .mac now, which hosts a few of my songs (including a new one and maybe one or two that aren't on my other music pages).

In time, I'm going to plan on having weekly song updates there, but right now, you can click here to download my new song, "Things I Say." Take the other ones too, see if I care.

No busking lately. Can't get myself to go outside really.

Afterbirth of the Cool

There hasn't been a single night in the past week where I haven't spent at least an hour listening to jazz on the radio. I guess I go through jazz phases from time to time, actually. It makes me feel sophisticated, and maybe a little less white. Also, I think it just reminds me that folk and rock aren't the only things out there, even if they're the only genres I do anything with. Nothing beats listening to some good Thelonious or Miles to get an idea of how different people handle improvisation.

This all fed into what was probably a twenty minute harp solo last night. Having made a fair amount of cash already, or enough to make me feel like I didn't need to attract an audience by playing anything recognizable, I decided to just mess around with a chord progression and noodle on the harp.

Now, I definitely have set harp rhythms in my brain. I resort to these usually at the beginning of a solo, and then slowly but surely manipulate them until it becomes something more legitimately improvised. Last night, I challenged myself to use none of these. To make use of rhythms that I normally don't even think of when I'm in the heat of a song.

I definitely fell back to a few habitual patterns, but on the whole it was a really enlightening exercise, and I definitely broadened my performance vocabulary. Not that it was earth-shattering or anything. That's only going to happen when I hook up a kazoo to my harmonica yolk.

The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls...

...or heard within them, if I may be so bold. I went out for just around 45 minutes tonight, long enough to make a couple bucks and rouse Meltyface from her roost in a far off bench.

I was halfway through "Mr. Tambourine Man" when I heard my voice echoing strangely. I thought I'd managed to tap into some previously unutilized resonators in my chest or something. Nope. I woke up Meltyface. She continued howling out the chorus no matter where I was in the song, be it a verse or a harmonica break. Great. As usual, this didn't help me make any money. After the station was cleared out by a subway, I saw Meltyface's hand emerge from behind a wall, pawing at a garbage can for support. I dunno what her deal is, but she always walks like that. Poor lady's probably got no liver left...she's got quite a stink to her.

That was my cue to peace out. She hobbled over to me and posed some unintelligible questions (at least that's what they sounded like), to which I responded, "have a good night," and vamoosed. Gotta sing "Maria" in the morning, so I needs my rest.

Blurg

"Did you come up with that song?"
"No, uh, it's a Johnny Cash song. Well, it's actually a traditional song I think. The Band also covered it. It's called 'Long Black Veil.'"
"Well, I--" (look of fatigued frustration at the din of an incoming train, then:...) "..you sing it right."
"Oh. Thanks. Yeah, I do it a little different."
He rushes off to an opening in the train during this.

That was an interesting encounter. Flattering, but weird.

Let's see, what else happened? I played "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" and "Second Hand News" tonight, though I've never looked up the tabs for them. I figured they were both three chord songs, and it worked out. So that was nice.

I bumped into Desiree and Carl, both of whom were involved with the production of the Full Monty I was in last fall. Additionally, I saw this guy Alex that Leslie knows, but it was pretty awkward. We don't really know each other, and after we made eye contact, he shuffled away. Boy, it sure is nice to have a job that so many people aspire to.

My brain's a little melted since I was down there for 4 hours tonight, so I don't really remember much else.

The Truce Hurts

Vlad appeared mysteriously out of nowhere tonight -- like the Impaler who bore his name -- and dropped a single in my case.

What am I supposed to do with this event? I thought we were at war! I coulda sworn he had been glowering at me from across the tracks every time we played against each other. I know I was. But then that dollar hit the grey bedding of my guitar case, and now all I can think about doing reciprocating by lobbing a dollar into his black gig bag the next time I see him playing. What's happened to me??? Have I gone soft? I mean, come on, who would I be without an El Douche-o type to balance me out? In short, as Tim Curry put it in Legend, "what is Light without Darkness?"

Well, I guess that's all over. And I suppose it's for the best. It's generally better to have allies than enemies in life, and the world of the subway performer is no exception. Plus, that was really nice of him. Hell, I even cleared out of my spot early today so I could let the tall, hairy keyboard player take over.

This abandonment of my station certainly had nothing to do with the fact that I made a record low in donations tonight. Nothing at all to do with it.

I'm playing a gig tonight! Waaa!

Hey, this is a little last minute, but I'm the musical guest for Talk Show with Bob Wiltfong tonight at the PIT at 8:00. I'd love for anyone who reads this crazy 'ole blog of mine to attend!

What: Me, doing some acoustic songs (including one new one), in a show that's hosted by Bob Wiltfong, who has starred in Chapelle's Show and the Daily Show. There will be some burlesque girls there too....click here for some more info about the show.

When: Tonight! April 19th. 8:00pm.

Where: The PIT (People's Improv Theater), 154 W. 29th St, between 7th and 6th avenues.

How much: Money? A mere $5, friend.

What a deal, eh? It's quite a show, and I'm thrilled to have been invited to be a part of it, so do come if you're able.

Thanks. That is all.

Crate, Just Crate

On Friday, whilst imparting the dulcet folk tones of "Blow Ye Winds" to the fine patrons of 23rd Street's famed 1 subway line, I was approached by a father and his young son, who kindly donated unto me a farthing, or something of that ilk.

The dad told me that it was "nice to hear somebody still plays great folk music." Then, like a guy who finds out that someone who reads his blog also went to school with his aunt, I totally spazzed out and got all into talking about sea shanties. Turns out we had both heard the song when we were younger and visiting Mystic Seaport (which, if you're up to date on the influences portion of my myspace profile, you'll be able to vouch for the truthfulness of my side of this claim)! Anyway, it was a great moment. Man, I sure do love folk music. And man, I don't yet understand why that doesn't make me super freaking popular.

Wanting to change things up a bit, I walked over to a (now) great Chelsea bodega before busking, and asked for a milk crate. The swell folks there forked over a great one, and so began my first evening of busking while sitting on my (now) polygon-etched duff. A strangely foreign concept for me, this busking-sitting thing. I know people do it all the time, but I never had a crate, so I never did it. Times are changing like lightning, friends. Soon enough I'll be glowering over you on a Times Square billboard. Probably because I got kicked out of my apartment and the Cup of Noodles billboard seemed like a warm place to be, what with its 24-hour stream of steam and all. But I'll still be there, damn it. Like that magician guy who hung in a ball or something above the street for a week. I never actually saw that, and I'm kinda glad I didn't; ever since he had to live in his own feces-filled goldfish bowl, I kinda feel like he might be a health hazard to all of mankind.

It's interesting how the crate changed up my dynamic; I almost exclusively did mellower, fingerpicking songs instead of my usual fervent lineup, and I also improvised a lot more with my guitar playing (chord substitutions) and harmonica yarping. That's a new word, don't tell anybody. It just sounds like what somebody does on a harmonica, right? Well, it's just gone into the public lexicon as of...me typing that, so if you're reading up on this blog later on and you have no clue what this jargon means...well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you were pretty far behind on catching the cool train. Maaaaybe you could say you've got a finger's hold of the caboose railing. Pumping frenetically on one of those seesaw pushcarts behind the cool train is really more like it.

And that, as Phil Ochs said, is all the news that's fit to sing.

Addendum

Thank you to the family who donated two mysterious Metrocards the other day. I shouldn't have doubted you. Turns out their combined value was 14 bucks.

After shooting a student film in seemingly subzero temperatures in New Hampshire this weekend, I was quite irked when I got back to NYC only to find that my monthly pass had expired. The aforementioned Metrocards came quite in handy. Thanks.

Now that I've got some creamy chicken ramen in me, I'm going busking. El douche-o is across the platform at 23rd Street and it's time to prove a point.

Me vs. the "Chelsea Blues Man" (douchebag)

It's common knowledge -- if you're a busker -- that if someone's playing in a station, you don't play on the platform across from them. Busking is a first-come, first-served kinda thing. Plus, it's about being fair to the other dude; if two buskers duke it out in the same station, neither of their individual musical talents will be distinguishable in the resulting melange. Come on, it's noisy enough down there already. Trains, bums, people inexplicably using payphones. If I had been ballsy enough to share stations with another busker, I would have successfully screwed both myself and the other guy every time I did it. Most buskers follow the Code and don't do this.

Enter El Douche-o, otherwise known as that electric guitarist who plays outside at 23rd and 7th every freaking day of the year. I admire him all right. He's pretty good, and stalwart at that. But for the love of God, how can an acoustic guitar possibly compete with a sweaty, overplayed Fender blastocaster and its veritable black hole of an amp? (Are black holes noisy?) Douchebag.

I'd been rockin' out in the station for about an hour, you know me, Mr. Cool, and all of a sudden I see this audacious freak across the tracks messing with his amp like he owns the joint. And not without reason! This guy gets write-ups in the local (Chelsea) papers all the time! "Bluesman of Chelsea!" "Clapton's less attractive, bummy counterpart!" "Douchebag that Rob now hates!" All these things are true. Well, the first one's the only one I have proof of, but the printers said they're getting back to me on my headline suggestions. Douchebag.

What started out as a sincerely exciting, lucrative set ended up as the most competitive situation I've been in since FOR-EVER. I raised my voice as loud as it could go, bursting countless capillaries; I banged away on Emmylou like she was Judas Iscariot, practically peeling planks away with my pick; I channeled hurricane-like gusts into my harmonica, releasing raping rains upon its reeds. Douchebag.

This succeeded in making me look crazy. It did not boot the douchebag from his spot. I for one think it did annoy him, though. After about an hour, he'd apparently fretted enough over the messy musique concrete we were creating, and hit the road. I ended up doing all right money-wise, though I should really just walk up to this dude next time I see him in "the Nook" and ask for a cut of his money. Douchebag.

On a less I'm-gonna-force-feed-someone-to-death note, my girlfriend recently got me a turntable -- something I've been without for (shudder) a year and a half. I flipped. Records were once my big thing...I've amoeba-ized a few collections here and there, and I've now got around 300 or so. I've acquired so many records since my busted Miracord was put into storage, and the day hasn't enough hours for me to go through all of them. This afternoon I was listening to Stephen Stills' first solo album and got hooked on "Love the One You're With," which meant I needed to learn it quick before I hit the station. I don't know if it's well-known, but I made a pretty penny off of playing it. Maybe it's just my insightful, inspired rendition. Anyway...thanks, Leslie.

A kid (10-12 years old, I reckon) ran up to me sometime after my turf war had resolved and tossed me a coin, and as usual I made sure to give him a, "hey, thanks, man." But when he turned around, he had a pony tail and was very obviously a girl. Sooooo, the moral of the story is, I suck.

Douchebag.

Me vs. "the Homeless," Pt. 9

Homeless sparring continues. I went out around 11 tonight, and encountered a crazy, drunken, lovelorn dood almost immediately. He was pretty well-spoken, and made frequent gestures to his cell phone, which led me to doubt whether he was actually destitute or not. Either way, he wouldn't shut up during my songs. Evidently his girlfriend had just dumped him (this guy had to be at least in his 40s), and he was coping with his grief by calling her voicemail and leaving her messages that basically consisted of me singing whatever song I was in the middle of, accompanied by his pointedly angry background vocals. I'm not sure if she got the messages, or if she even existed. But if she did, she's got the very first bootlegged live Rob Morrison performance in history.

This dood also served as my spokesman. In addition to applauding overzealously after each song, he petitioned passersby for money for me, going so far as to say, "God bless you," to those who donated.

It's not that I don't appreciate that. But as with the drunken gross woman from my last post, the presence of a dubious person so near to me tends to freak people out. I make less money. And I definitely don't appreciate that.

I was surprised he knew so many of the songs I played. After a while, I thought I'd shake him off by playing an original, instrumental piece. About thirty seconds in, he was quick to enlighten all of us that he was "sick of it." This catchphrase was repeated incessantly until my masochistic side yielded and I gave myself a break by playing some Neil Young.

This dood informed me that I'm lucky to be young; he got dumped because his girlfriend thinks he's getting too old. I think he might be overlooking the fact that he hangs out in subway stations suspiciously late. And doesn't wash his hands. And doesn't donate to kind buskers who inexplicably tolerate his antics in consideration of karma and in hopes that he'll prove he's not completely bankrupt and toss in a quarter. That didn't happen.

I'll close this post with the first interaction we had tonight:

Dood: (pointing to my harmonica yolk) That's a cool device.
Me: Yeah...thanks.
Dood: (reading my sign)...Rob...Morrison. Is that a real name?
Me: It's as--
Dood: Pssh, it's gotta --
Me: What?
Dood: .....
Me: Yeah, it's --
Dood: Rob. Morrison.
Me:....It's as real as they get.
Dood: Sounds like it. Not many people have real names.
Me: Hmmm. Well, not even Bob Dylan's name was real.
Dood: Yeah, but he was a jew.

Great.

Me vs. The Homeless, Part 8

I pity them as much as the next dude, I really do. Curled up in a subway station on a piece of cardboard, hoarding bizarre items, begging with the passersby for loose change or a scrap of food, watching while their bodies detiorate. It must be unbearable. So yes, I pity them. But when they get in my way, so help me, William Blake, my wrath doth descend like a plague of locusts.

There's a lady at the 23rd street station who barks drunken commands everyone including me, demanding, "give me that cigarette! I know you got it. Gimme." And "play more Bob Dylan. I like Bob Dylan. Bob. Dylan. Dylan. Bob. Bob Dylan." While I'm not impressed by her drinking habit, I can handle the Dylan stuff...if you read this blog enough, you know that I'm obsessed with the dood. But what I can't handle is that she insists on singing along from her perch on the benches nearby, and then demands more Dylan while I'm still playing one of his songs. It don't work like that, lady. It works like this: I'm going to punch you in the face.

It hasn't come to that yet. But man, is it close. She definitely deters people from giving me money...Her presence alone is unsettling, and she's got powerful psychological abilities, too. I think they see her slobbering all over herself and begin to think that I'm not much different. We're both hanging out in a subway station for inordinate amounts of time, hoping for money, right? I'd like to think that the difference is I'm providing some kinda service, while also not drinking liquor out of a plastic bag with a crazy straw.

Last night I snuck out to get in a quick session at 23rd, and was about to go through the turnstiles when I saw the matted hair and lumpy face of my foe, squished up against the armrest of a bench, probably dreaming about a pack of cigarettes singing "Blowin' in the Wind" in harmony. Like a lost woodsman stumbling upon a slumbering bear, I crept quietly out of the uptown side of the station, crossed the street, and descended into the downtown half. "She'll never be able to get to me over here," I snickered.

Well, it's true that she couldn't physically reach me, but her voice could. As soon as I started playing, she was roused from her drunken stupor, and began hollering unintelligible comments at me from across the tracks. Not the worst thing in the world, as there was pretty much nobody around (it was after midnight), so I didn't exactly lose any money. But I also didn't make any.

Whatever. Her days are probably numbered with or without my inevitably unrealized malice. Oh, and lady? For the record, Bob Dylan covered "Mr. Bojangles" live many times, so shaddup already.

Call me Piecemeal.

Emmylou's back from repairs! And she sounds freaking awesome. I bought a humidifier to make sure she doesn't get all wonky again. Apparently humidifiers are pretty standard for acoustics in the winter when heat is on. Whodathunk? Well, now that that's taken care of, I can move on to other things on my "to pay for" list. Loans, rent, food. Ah, the day-to-day life of a wandering soul.

I've been trying to learn the sea shanty "Blow Ye Winds in the Morning," which has got to be one of my all-time favorite songs. Thing is, it's got about 19 verses (probably more hiding somewhere, as it's a song that got tossed around from ship to ship, changing just like any good folk song). That's a mite more than I'm used to, even after memorizing my fair share of Dylan tunes. It doesn't help that in the 1800s, sailors didn't seem to care much for rhyme scheme. I'm confident I can do it; this busker at Mystic Seaport knew all of it. There's hope.

Pretty epic set tonight. I don't think I repeated anything except for "thank you." About 54 times. 'Cos I got 54 donations tonight! Awwww yeeeeeah. Next stop, Carnegie Hall. The lobby.

Some creepy fella hustled over to me as a train pulled in and handed me a pen, informing me it was to be my "lucky pen." I awkwardly smiled, nodded, and cupped myself in fear. On the walk home, I realized that this thing really is going to be my lucky pen. It's double-sided! I haven't checked if there's ink in either side, but c'mon! I can sign two recording contracts at once! Autograph two headshots at once! Sign two living wills at once! Okay, that's less fun. But with this pen, I'd find a way to make it memorable.

(Apparently this racist old political cartoon suggests that the Irish and African Americans are equally dumb and worthless or something. Just to be clear, I don't feel this way. I just think it's funny looking and cool in that 'old' way. Don't be mad. I am part Irish, actually. And I like African Americans. We're cool, right?)

You oughta be a fool about me

Emmylou has gone into repairs, at long last. I had an audition today that required guitar playing, and afterwards I realized how much it sucks to not be able to play anything on the first five frets. So I took 'er straight to good ole Rudy's music repairs. In addition to her bad frets needing to be fixed long ago, it turns out I should have been humidifying her during "this time of year." Who knew? I never heard of that. Then again, up until two days ago, I thought Special K was just the name of a cereal.

She should be done next Monday. This seemed reasonable to me in the repair shop, and I gladly handed her over and took the subway home. Thing is, home really isn't home without my guitar. I live in a tiny apartment where I can see everything I own from any vantage point. But now there's a vacuous space where she normally is, and I had to drape a blanket over my guitar stand so as to not get irrationally glum.

It doesn't help that I was working on a handful of songs over the weekend, one of which I'd like to finish and play for someone soon. Then again, I've always got this wicked hot 90's Casio keyboard that has some pretty slick preprogrammed arpeggiated melodies. That's romantic, right? Oh, I have egg shakers, too. If that ain't a recipe for a masterpiece, I don't want to know what is.

The Secret...

First, it began with my friend Jason talking about it all the time. Then people in my improv class began citing it. Then Larry King, debatable sultan of tv interviewing, had to go and make it officially buzzworthy. The Secret. The Law of Attraction. And now I've gone and brought it to thousands of people by writing about it on my world-renowned blog (that I haven't updated in a month). I am but a cog in the penny-pressing touristy machine of the Secret.

Anyway, I decided to try it out last night when I busked. Hey, I need money. So I willed money to come flyin' at me. The only thing is, this doesn't work if every patron of the subway woke up this particular morning, kissed their lip-worn copy of the Secret, and willed their money to stay in their pockets, wallets, jars, or even that little hollowed out window sill they think no one knows about. That screws up the whole system! There I was, attracting money from all over the place, while the same money felt obligated to remain where it was. Well, that doesn't help me. Especially if they don't bring the window sill into the subway station.

My guitar is in serious need of repair. I can't play anything lower than the fifth fret without getting a horrible, Harry Partchian buzz from the strings because all the frets have practically melted away. And I can't get ole Emmylou repaired until somebody gives me money. And I can't get money from busking unless people will their money to go where it pleases! Damn you, Secret! Why can't people get back into Ishmael or something? Actually, I don't know if that book champions the donation of money, but I can't think of anything better. A Christmas Carol? Wait, everyone go see Wallace Shawn in The Fever! Then again, in that play, he just points out that the affluence/poverty scales seem hopelessly tipped...

Okay, just go see Zodiac, because it's pretty good.

Latest busking song: "Jokerman" by Dylan.

I'm in love.

It's true. Just when I thought I was going to be alone on Valentine's Day, I found the most perfect female in the universe. She's artistic, she's clever, she's prolific (not many of you girls out there can claim that one, unless it's in some gross way), she's got a nice dark side to her (which is requisite for me), and she's a total freaking success.

I'm talking about Lucinda Williams, of course. The best singer-songwriter in the everlovin' world. For reasons still being explored by the nation's top scientists, it took me a solid three years to listen to Lucinda's Grammy-winning tour de force Car Wheels on a Gravel Road after copying it from the illustrious Henderson County Public Library during a particularly uneventful summer break. And now I'm hooked, probably worse than I was to Dr. Mario in 2003, which was pretty bad, and also pretty belated seeing that there plenty of other more timely games to get addicted to in that fine year.

Anyhow, I kid you not: Lucinda Williams is the best songwriter ever. And you need to go buy all of her albums now. Yes, yes, yes. I know you have college loans and subway passes to take care of, and you were hoping to adopt an underpriveleged child in Zimbabwe. Well, cancel those plans -- all of them. I can't express how good her lyrics are and how good her music is and how earth-implodingly beautiful they are in tandem, but if you like things that are good, then you'll like it.

Yep. Who needs "real life" ladies? You all suck. I'll take a lovely country folk poet who doesn't know me from Adam Ant anyday over stupid girls whose brains function like Rubic's cubes in a house of mirrors or a better example of logic-barren craziness.

Also, I haven't been busking in a while, so please accept this post as a quasi-legit substitute.